


Death's Ink

by PyrettaGrimmling



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms
Genre: All OC - Freeform, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25539871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrettaGrimmling/pseuds/PyrettaGrimmling
Summary: A different take on Death Note. All characters are OC but take inspiration from characters in the show. The idea of this take is it's Death Note with far more politics, philosophy, and deeper questions of morality- not just individual morality, but systemic morality as well. How differently do you use the Death Note when you're aware of the systems you exist in and the powers of the world?GENERAL CONTENT WARNING: This story is very frank and upfront about fascism, the human cost of fascism, and it also explores the topics of abuse, indoctrination, and systemic discrimination. It explores all the ways humanity creates its own hell.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

The Shinigami realm was as desolate as it ever was. Across ashen plains, amid vast bones beneath a gray and hazy sky the Shinigami slept and gambled. Nestled in the cliffs of jagged granite beneath the cave of the Shinigami King, there are many ruined buildings among withered trees- a mockery of the old Edo-period towns of earth.

Inside one of these crumbling buildings is a Shinigami. Their name is Fumiko, and they are hunched over a desk. In this world, they had assigned themselves the task of keeping a balance. What balance, they never quite said. . . but they were always peering through a mirror on the desk. As time whirled past outside, they watched, unblinking, and every seventh day, they wrote a name in the book, and went back to motionlessness. Regular as clockwork. Sometimes, other shinigami would come in and gossip with them, and without moving, they would speak back. Such drive was rare for shinigami- but Fumiko was new. They had not yet been worn down by millenia.

Fumiko was small by Shinigami standards, perhaps the size of a human child. They had bows in their ragged hair, and dressed in military attire, though dusty and battered and torn. Right now, they were waiting, and watching, but they were also listening. For they had a guest. The guest was Ryuk- his distinctive spiky hair nearly reaching the ceiling.

"So yeah. . . turns out humans are quite entertaining. They like to wind themselves up with their big ideas, of like- this kid wouldn't shut up about 'justice' and 'truth' and went on a real rampage, scared the hell out of all the other humans. Changed their whole world. . . it's fun seeing them scurry around". He was gesturing as he did, munching on an apple- a shinigami apple, sadly, and wincing at the bitter taste.

They spoke without turning. "They are willfull and full of passion and belief. . . that much is true. Do you truly believe them to be dependable at all? They seem so fickle. . . betraying their principles at every turn." Ryuk snorted at the mention of principles: Shinigami life held no space for those in their lives of boredom moderated only by games and voyeurism into human life.

"Light never stopped with his principles or beliefs. He kept at it, even when it caused chaos. Fun kid." Ryuk finished the apple, and Fumiko twitched, before writing a name down. "Hold on. Didn't you already kill someone this week?"

"I did. However, the balance was wrong. Someone else had to go- a miscalculation on my part." Ryuk mimed a rude hand gesture behind Fumiko's back, and Fumiko went back to staring through the mirror. "There must always be predators as there must always be prey- too much of either is bad. "

"You know. . . there's probably a human with similar ideas to yourself. You could give them your note and watch the fireworks, keep you entertained for a while. You do just sit there all day and gossip a bit. Why not go looking?"

"Perhaps. . . What harm could it do? This 'Light' of yours may have been one of a kind, but if not, then I can see another pair of hands working on the balance." They sat up, stiffly, their exoskeleton creaking. Ryuk cocked his head at this, and his chains rattled. "Thank you for this. . . I have been tremendously bored, and stuck watching the human world. Perhaps it's time I shook it up."

"That's the attitude! I'll be watching. . . Bring back some apples?" Ryuk chuckled, and Fumiko gave him a little glare back, as she lifted off into the ashen skies.

_And on Earth the world shook. A new note fell to earth- into My hands. I used it, the pages turning and devouring life, tearing civilisation apart at the seams and extinguishing the stars and making all into darkness and death death death. . ._

Pyretta awoke with a start. Leaping out of bed, she checked the time _-9:31 am -,_ and gasped, before starting to rush through the motions of getting dressed- and then stopping again.

"Wait. Wait, it's Saturday. I'm fine, I don't have anywhere to go. Jesus. . ." She sat back down. Pyretta was. . . an odd duck of a woman, to be sure. Somewhere between skinny and emaciated, with a wildness to her green eyes and her bed-head of long black tipped brown hair still all rough and spiky, she was the definition of a beautiful mess. Tall, but seemingly small in stature.

Her room reflected her- clothes strewn a little bit, books piled on a chair, the laundry chair- there was always the laundry chair. Books were piled on her desk, with bookmarks halfway through each without fail- regardless of if it was fiction or political theory. Part-filled sketchbooks and notebooks, written in ornate lettering - she prided herself on her caligraphy. Then there was the posters- rock bands from the 90s through to the 2010s, ubiquitously spiky, overdressed, and glammed up to the nines.

"Oh, well, might as well get started with my usual Saturday plans. . . make tea and browse twitter." The house was tiny- it was student accommodation, after all. As the kettle boiled, she switched on her phone, and the date flashed up. _January 4, 2020, location Glasgow._ Ten years since the Kira Killings had rocked the world, and the Cult of Kira had very nearly established a global hegemony. Were it not for Kira having been found and killed- coinciding with the disappearance of a high ranking detective in Japan, something that certain cults had latched onto as a conspiracy theory- the world would be in the grip of theocratic totalitarianism.

Instead, it was just regular moderate totalitarianism. Protests were met with violence, and police were regularly connected to Kira cults without much repercussion. Corporate power had increasing influence over the law, and money always got you out of a tight spot- scandals served little more purpose than simply as filler in the 24/7 news cycle.

But hey, at least people were still funny, and you could buy Pride flags on Amazon. It was just the usual dross on Twitter- continual shock over the rightward drift, ineffectual yelling into the void - "Did we learn nothing from the Kira years?"- and celebrity scandals. Oh shocker, another teen fiction author turns out to be a horrendous transphobe. Sighing and closing twitter, she took her tea and sat down on the bed again. _Just fuck the whole wide world. Jesus. Where had all the good news gone?_

She'd been seven when the whole Kira business started to get media buzz. Twelve FBI agents had been found dead on the 23rd of December, 2003, and the story leaked to the press before any agency could suppress it. The Phantom Killings had a background media buzz before then, but when the story got out that twelve agents investigating a lead on Kira in Japan were found dead, the media went berserk. All the previous phantom killings- and quite a few unrelated natural deaths that didn't quite fit the pattern- were suddenly linked to Kira.

Of course, she didn't hear too much about it at the time. A little overheard from grown-up conversation, her parents fretting over Kira. She distinctly remembered being told to call her parents by new names, and she didn't think too much about it at the time. The whole year was tense and wrong, and the news took on a somber tone. Even she as a child couldn't ignore it. Two years of this passed and the world got more drab around her, police officers everywhere. People threatening to upload your picture online if you pissed them off, the school bullies wielding cameras and stalking other kids. She was ten and had her first feelings for another. Another girl. Young crushes were always strange and awkward but it had worked out for a couple weeks while they were just being extra friendly with each other.

They'd kissed, but missed that the girl's mother was watching and took a picture of them both. Threatened to upload it, called it criminal and disgusting and wrong. They agreed, of course- the whole world was gripped by the fear of Kira at that point and her parents had already explained what was going on to her. That she had to avoid having her face exposed to cameras- any of them could be death in the eyes of Kira.

Four years later when she was a teenager struggling with trying to hold together a failing relationship with an awkward boyfriend when the news broke that Kira had been apprehended and killed by a renegade government agency. The world celebrated, and the cults of Kira fell into furious infighting, seeking to gain whatever had given Kira their powers. Governments that had been ramping up surveillance and policing suddenly found themselves unable to justify the spending, and were either forced by protest and riot to scale it back, or scaled it back willingly to save face. Of course, no state returned to business as usual as it was pre-Kira.

 _I lived through all that shit. I'm still scared of cameras, and the world won't fucking stop trying to put them everywhere for five seconds._ Pyretta's phone buzzed with a text as she sat back, sipping her tea and massaging her forehead. A couple minutes later, it buzzed again- so she picked it up. It was her girlfriend, Mira. _The one bright spot in my life. . . that and the music._

"Hey babe, you awake yet? I've been up an hour." read the first text.

"You there babe?" read the second.

She smiled and started typing. "I'm here Mira, what's up? Nightmares again?"

"Yeah same as usual" came the reply. "Can I come over? I need hugs :("

"Of course you can babe. Come here and snuggle me."

"Be there in five, hopping on my bike."

Mira. . . Mira, she'd met two years back, when Pyretta had gone to university. At first, they'd just been quiet friends, for almost a year, before they finally realised their mutual crush and longing. Mira was physically very different to Pyretta. Where Pyretta was lanky, tall and skinny, Mira was buff but a bit shorter. Mira spent a lot of time in the gym, obsessing over her diet and looking to beat her records, sculpting herself with workouts and knowledge.

In terms of interests and aesthetics they lined up a bit more- Pyretta leaned more to psychology and political science, Mira leaned more towards biology and human physiology. Mira was a year younger than Pyretta at 23, and both of them had been kind of lonely before meeting each other.

The doorbell rang. Mira didn't live too far from Pyretta. "Come in!". The door opened, and Mira stepped inside. She was about 5 foot 8 inches, compared to Pyretta's 6ft, but easily weighed twice as much in muscle alone. She wore a crop top- it was summer, after all- with denim jeans. Her hair was short, spiky, and currently shock pink, a contrast to her soft brown eyes.

Pyretta dove at her and hugged her tightly, and Mira sweeped her off her feet. "Hey girl. Needed you." whispered Mira into Pyretta's ear. Mira carried her across to the couch, and sat down with Pyretta hugging her.

"Same nightmares as usual? Or something new?" asked Pyretta.

"No, new one. Same pattern of nightmares- should have been clearer in the texts, but I wasn't feeling great. Do you want me to talk about them or do you just want to snuggle?" asked Mira.

"If it'd help you, honey."

"Ok, so. . . you know how my usual nightmares go. . . the whole business with Kira, and my parents . . . but, this was different." She paused, and leaned down and kissed Pyretta. "Sorry, I needed that, I need you. . . the nightmare was different. There was a new Kira. The pattern was different, and this time everyone was scared. I think there may have been multiple Kiras, even? I just. . . it felt like it was happening all over again. Like the nightmare had returned."

"You mean. . ." Pyretta shook her head and cleared her thoughts- her own nightmares of using a Note and the whispering thoughts that told her she could use it against the brutality she saw day-to-day put to the side- "No, doesn't matter. I've got you, honey. I've got you right here. And nothing is gonna hurt you while I'm here."

_On the other side of the world, the air shook and rippled above the skies of Virginia. There was a pop and a rush of air that flattened a tree in the woods, but no one noticed. To those who can perceive Shinigami, a tall figure draped in ragged black cloth with two angelic wings had appeared. He had blonde hair, and a solemn face. He was here to cause trouble- the greatest thrills of the Shinigami realm had proven insufficient for him, and he had turned to sleeping, until Ryuk had told his story._

_Now he wanted chaos, he wanted to watch humans break. And here, here he would find it, among humans. Flying out over Charlottesville, he watched and observed, peering into buildings and listening, and overhearing. Looking for someone praying to God to let them purge the rot from this world._

_For he, like Ryuk, knew the world was rotten. And that humans, desperate to see the world change, would do great and terrible things._

Charles was an ordinary American man at 21, with a bowl cut, blonde hair, a terrible stubble and a square jaw alongside under-developed muscles. He saluted the flag, drank beer, respected the troops, feared God, and fought like hell against social progress as he viewed it to oppose those things. And he felt threatened by the world.

His world was simple, you see. Women were made for men, and vice versa, kids obeyed their elders, and work and good Christian prayer was how you made it through life. Anything else was whining and disrespected the natural order. And he saw his world rotting and being pushed aside by what he viewed to be outside forces. Perversions of his natural order were commonplace, and things kept changing. He couldn't just mock anyone? There were actual differences between him and others he should respect? He might not have fully earned his position in life?

That couldn't stand to his sensibilities. But try as he might, change kept happening. He'd turned to drink and hanging out with disenfranchised middle aged men with views like his. He spent well too much time online in forums with people who remembered the simpler times as comfort. And he prayed every day to God to let him purge the rot from the world. Make me the new Kira, he pleaded. This world needs your loving judgement, o God.

Tonight he was walking home drunk in the rain. It was dark, nearly midnight in local time. High above on the spire of a church, the Shinigami perched and watched, unseen by mortal eyes, the same Shinigami that had been stalking Charlottesville all day for someone interesting they had seen through the holes and mirrors of the Shinigami Realm. It saw him, and had heard him in the church earlier, substituting his own words for the prayer but making sure he couldn't be heard over the rest. It knew he was the ideal for their ends.

"Goddamn uppity fools. What's all this about reparations? Why can't you work for your life?" Charles had a habit of ranting to himself when he walked home at night. Something hit him on the head, and he stopped. It landed at his feet, next to a puddle. It was a notebook, with white writing he couldn't make out on the front. Shaking his head, and looking for whoever may have thrown it, he picked it up and looked at it in the light.

"Death Note? What the hell is this shit?" He said. The notebook was black, with white writing in spiky gothic font on the front. He shook his head and prepared to drop it- before he noticed, standing right in front of him, some eight foot tall freak. "And who the fuck are you and why are you so tall, asshole?"

The figure leaned in to him, and that was when Charles realised they weren't human. They were eight foot tall, with two sapphires for eyes, spiked up golden hair in a mohawk, and a shredded black robe over their body that had black wings that stretched out and up into the sky. Almost angelic- almost devilish. Their skin was covered in stitches. "Oh? You can see me?"

"Well, I've plum gone insane then." said Charles. "Now my hallucinations are questioning why I can see them. At least they're as rational as me."

The figure chuckled, and put a heavy hand on Charles's shoulder. "No, you're quite sane. And I am a Shinigami- a god of death. You- I heard your prayer. To see the rot of this world burned away, yes? You're bored of this world's games and erosion of all you know, of the same stagnant decay of all you've ever had."

"Y-yeah, that's true. . . what the hell is a Shinigami? And more importantly, why does what I want matter to you?" Charles was shaking a bit, unsure of what was going on.

"Because. I'm bored of the rot too. I want to see something change. Like you do. And that note you hold, has that power. The details of what a Shinigami is are mostly irrelevant. . . but suffice it to say I'm tied to you until you give that book up. Not that I want you to. Let's get you home, shall we?" Charles pulled himself up steady with the Shinigami's help, and started walking onward, homeward, plans forming in his head. Petty little schemes. . .

_Glasgow, Sunday, 11:30 AM  
_

Yesterday had been a day of snuggling and care for each other for Mira and Pyretta, as both had just needed each other after a long week. Today was their Sunday out and it was a beautifully sunny day.

What they didn't know, was that a presence was following them. Childlike in stature, with twin pigtails- Fumiko had been following them and listening to them discussing the world, and their feelings. As they sat on a bench with milkshakes, spilling their fears to each other between snuggles, Fumiko listened. She heard them speak of their fear of not having work to go into from their education, fear of losing housing due to landlords and the precarious balance they existed in.

_They fear being powerless. They fear being on the wrong side of the balance, of others having undue power over them and having power over their own lives taken away. They understand the balance. Maybe they'd do the right thing, with the Note._

She slipped in behind Pyretta- as Pyretta was the more outspoken of the two, and the more steady-seeming one, and pulled her death note from her hip. Slipping it into Pyretta's handbag, she then fell in quietly following. A couple of hours passed- while Pyretta and Mira ate ice cream, Fumiko stole one from the stand too, and hid in the bushes nearby eating it. Watching, thinking, considering her choice.

The balance was all to her. It had to be kept, and life had to be kept moving onward. And Pyretta had the right ideas about the Balance and about power and leverage, seemingly. For a Shinigami, Fumiko was an idealist. She knew the rules, of course, bar this loophole of humans using the Note that was drawn to her attention by Ryuk, but she had her philosophy about life and balances. Compared to the rest, who were millenia to aeons older than her, she was young and full of fire still.

Boredom still seeped its way into her veins, however. So she couldn't really claim to be doing this for high-minded reasons. The chains that dangled off her little wings rattled as she hovered along behind Pyretta, watching, listening.

Pyretta got home a further hour later (it was firmly afternoon), and kissed Mira goodbye. "See you tomorrow honey!" she said, as she waved Mira goodbye and Mira got on her bike home. Going inside, she turned on the TV for background noise- her parents had always done that- and set it to the news. The same old same old mostly, until she was almost done making tea (two sugars, no milk) and the news went to foreign news.

"In the United States, nearly fifty students from a university in Virginia died within a few hours of each other- either in public, or in private and found later. More might be missing, as there's no clear pattern among the dead aside from heart attacks. Investigation is ongoing, with no conclusions drawn yet. Across the country in California. . ."

The spoon fell out of her hands, and slipped into the cup. Fifty deaths. Heart attacks. Students. All in a few hours. . .

_Kira. Kira again. Again. Again. Again. Again._

Sobbing wordlessly, she dove for her handbag. To look online. _It can't just be me seeing this. Why such a minor headline?_ She reached into her handbag-

-and bumped her hand into a notebook. _Wait, I didn't take a notebook anywhere?_ She reached in and pulled the notebook out.

Black with silver writing. On the front, two words. "Death Note".

"Death note? What's this. . . How to use. . . The Human whose name is written in this note shall die.This Note will not take effect unless the writer has the person's face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected. What the fuck. . ." She blinked, reading it again, not sure what she has in this moment and her mind whirling with shock, terror, and existential fear- the trauma of her past playing up with this shock of the new. "If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person's name, it will happen. . . If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack. Heart attack. Heart attack. Heart attack. Heart. . . attack."

 _There is a new Kira. And as far as I can tell, I also now have Kira's power. Or something like it. This would work exactly for what Kira did._ Said the rational, calm part of her brain- which was a very small minority right now.

"I'm going to say this is a fake, put it back in the bag, and grab my phone and deal with one crisis at a time I think." _Wasn't denial the first step of acceptance or- Oh forget it._

Taking her phone out she flopped back onto her sofa, and started looking at headlines. Lots were reporting the deaths, some separately, some all at once- some only focused on one group, some looking at only one or two (apparently, a particularly scandalous billionaire had also turned up dead- weird.) Twitter. . . well, let's see if anyone has any more personal perspective. Might as well collate what people are saying. Cling to the rational.

"Someone dug up all the dead who died of a heart attack in the given period. . . all from one university, the University of Virginia and. . . most of the dead were women, or people of colour. Oh. . . okay."

She wasn't sure how long she sat there just staring blankly at the screen. All she knew is she came to what felt like an eternity later, sobbing. _Everything is happening again. Why is it happening again?_

She pulled out the notebook. _And then there's this fucking thing. If it's real, it's the sickest joke in the book, and I'm going to burn it. But the only way to tell if it's real is to use it and. . . Would I do_ _that?_ Flipping through the notes, reading the rules, she came to the end of the book and found two more rules- that if it is used, the user must write one name every 13 days, or perish. And that if it is destroyed, the one who destroys it dies. _So if I do use it, I gotta keep using it, but I can't destroy it either. And are there other costs. . . ?_

Another voice piped up in her head, and it spoke bluntly. _Fuck it. You've only got one life and there's another Kira out there already, killing other disadvantaged and different college students and they'll come for you in time. Use it. You could at least do some good with it._ _You're definitely doomed if you do nothing._

She reached for a pen and froze. _Did Kira make the same justifications before they became a tyrant? Did they think they were doing the right thing? What would Mira think?_

Mira. Mira would never consider using it. Mira lost her parents to Kira because of false charges on their criminal records, charges they had been cleared of- but the bureaucrats had never actually erased or recorded the clearing. Mira. . . Mira would be disappointed, hurt, and scared. Couldn't tell her about this problem- It would break her.

 _I'm going to put some headphones on and a jacket on, and I'm going to go for a walk- when did it become night?!_ Looking outside she saw that the sun had set and most of the day had passed her by- a good few hours had just vanished. Shaking her head, she put on headphones and a jacket, and locking the door behind her, she stalked out into the night, music on, deep in thought.

 _Ok, so. . . on one hand, I've got this "Death Note" that may or may not be real and follows the exact rules of Kira's powers. If I use it and it's real, I inevitably condemn and doom myself by its rules, and I don't know how Kira rationalised their way to being the murderer we know now. I might fall down the same pits. On the other hand. . ._ She kept walking down the street, and all the houses were for sale. No fewer than 27 houses, sat empty, with exorbitant pricetags on them.

_On the other hand the world is violent and full of horrible people who'll keep houses empty when people have no home. There's so much perpetuated injustice. And now another Kira who so far appears to be a spiteful uni teen? Someone who may very well kill me in the end. And the media spun the clear killings as "needing further investigation"._

_Just what do I do? Is it evil to even use this thing if it's real? The world is full of so much suffering made reality by systems only upheld by a few. The few that can't find the money to house everyone but can find the money to hire goons to protect their property rights. Murder is fine to them, just don't break their windows. And then they have the nerve to preach "Do as you would be done by"._

At this point, she had made her way to a park, and sat down on one of the benches. The same one that she had been on earlier in the day with Mira, and she sat with the Note in her lap, and a pen in her hand. No-one was about, aside from a couple of dog-walkers, it was quiet. No one would notice someone writing in the dead of night, or even care.

 _Where does the slope become slippery?_ she thought, as the pen hovered on the page. _Where might I start justifying killing innocents? Would I be able to let go and let it kill me when my work is done? Can I even do good when the enemy is a fluid system where the individuals matter less than the whole? Sure, dead CEOs are good, but the company can't be killed with this. I can only disrupt the system, and make it easier for people who want to build something new to do so. And if I don't use it I can't destroy it, so someone else could end up using it.  
_

_I can't allow myself to become a god or encourage that thinking. I'm trying to make the world a better place. I'm not necessarily making the world a better place by doing this, and I'm capable of doing wrong. . . I've got to remember that. I can't always be right. Or evil finds its way inside. Is this worth my life? I could change the world at such a deadly price. . . Is my life worth this?_

_And what happens if I don't do it? I could be killed by the other new Kira. Or a million and one other looming and constant threats get me. What's the point in dying small when the world opposes you on general principle?_ Her hand moved closer to the page. _Who would I even test it on? The real big nasties don't have a constant social presence and their deaths could be hushed up for a while to keep the charade, who is. . . Oh, her. Ma'am Toshley Pennyton. The single loudest, most obnoxious bigot with a platform._

She flipped her phone open and checked, and yes, Ma'am Toshley Pennyton was railing against "the queers" for the sanctity of marriage, while a Lord of the House of Lords, richer than most people, and owner of several nonprofit orgs and charities, she apparently had nothing better to do than to pick on random nobodies on twitter and post vitriolic screeds to the public. Ma'am Toshley Pennyton was a specific kind of evil: She had everything she could ever want and yet had nothing better to do with it than demean and degrade and harm the lives of others. She was -for lack of a better phrasing- cruelly petty and pettily cruel.

And she never logged off. Ever. She could be relied on from the hours of eleven in the morning to eleven at night to be replying or posting something, with only small gaps here and there. It was barely eight- the September nights were drawing in. Toshley Pennyton was her real name, and she had even posted birth certificates at a bewildered Canadian who could not believe that was their real name. Flipping her phone back shut, she put it away and picked up the book and pen.

Putting tip to page, she began to write. Toshley Pennyton's name was inked on the page, and she watched Pennyton's replies hawkishly. In forty seconds there were three tweets, and then. . . silence. A minute became ten. Pyretta picked up the book and put it in her bag, and started walking back the way she came, checking her phone every couple of minutes on the way back. Wondering if it had worked. Wondering if she had committed to something too soon, or if she was just being tricked or-

Maybe a minute away from home (and more than an hour after the forty seconds had expired), a note was posted on her page. "This is London Police. Toshley Pennington was found dead nearly an hour ago, by her cleaner, and we were informed immediately. She died of a heart attack- cause unknown. Investigation is pending- RIP Toshley."

RIP Toshley. RIP Toshley. RIP Toshley. . . the moment echoed on for a while, and she must have spaced out- thank god for the late hour in a quiet neighbourhood and the fact she at least kept scrolling and semi-reading.

It was real. It was real, and she just killed someone.


	2. Gathering Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Death Notes have fallen to earth, to very different people. To one privileged and fortunate, thinking their way of life is being eroded by change, and to one who has clawed their way through life, only through constant effort avoiding becoming an enemy of the system. Charles begins to fall in with very unsavory types, while Pyretta struggles with her own morality and the fear of the book killing her if she fails to live up to its rules.
> 
> Do be aware that Charles is an out-and-out fascist and uses generally very icky language.

Pyretta stumbled in the door, and slammed it shut behind her, and collapsed onto her sofa, staring listlessly at the Death Note.

"I was always going to be an enemy of this world. I was always going to have to work my ass off, fight for my place, and take nothing for granted. I was always going to have to fight for my life. . . and this is a tool to do it with, but. . . "

_I just killed someone. They would have killed me too, though, if the world let them- remember Toshley's remark about "back in my day we would have responded to 'coming out parties' by getting on our horses and unleashing the hounds"? These people- the bigoted and the rich- are all about "fuck you, got mine". It was always kill or be killed for me against them- for people like me against them._

_But if I start killing them and fighting them directly, now that I can- what do I do about people who genuinely think out of misguided morality that people like Toshley are worth protecting or are somehow answerable through rationality? They don't know better, and are pretty much innocent- what do I do about them? Ignore them? I think so. But I do know there's more who have to go._

_I shall be the monster, because I do not know anyone else who will be. I shall bloody my hands, that others do not have to. You've preyed on us all for too long- now I prey on you. This thing can't be destroyed or given up- it's up to me to use it well and sell my soul for the betterment of us all. I accept that what I must use this for is evil and I will answer for every name I write- for I'm only mortal, I can make mistakes._

She raised her pen again, before passing out on the couch right there and then, and a small figure came in through the wall to watch her sleep- sat unmoving, it kept vigil over her.

Charles was. . . having significantly less moral issues. Lackadaisically writing names in his book, watching the news and starting to cause havoc (though he was smart enough to leave talking heads alive- nothing too high profile yet) by picking on people that he felt broke the rules.

"Y'see, Xavier-" he turned to the Shinigami, who barely fit in his house - "The way I see it, there's a natural order to things, where everyone belongs. God laid that down for all of us. Some of us are meant to be fighters, to be warriors- and those who shirk that duty are cowards. Some of us are meant to be lovers and caretakers, mothers- and those that shirk that duty are hussies. I gotta thank you for this Note- lets me sort out all these people who break that natural order."

Xavier cocked his head, grinning widely. He liked this human, they were fun. "Charles? I do have one little question. How do you know you are right in enforcing that natural order?"

"That's simple. I know the order, and I have the power to enforce it. Besides, God also made some of us to remind others of their place in the order, and to enforce it if needs be."

While he was saying this, he was logging in to an anonymous image board, and scrolling his way to its "political" section. This place was his home, as it was for a lot of 20-year olds like him, and where other people who understood the world like he did -"other wise folks", he had said to Xavier- and started looking through the posts.

"Now this place is incredible. Folks here get it. They get the rot of the world and where there's violations of the natural order, and they go out of their way to find names and faces and more so we can correct the issue." Xavier cocked his head and turned to Charles before speaking.

"You know. . . you could be capable of the same. There's a deal between Shinigami, and Death Note holders."

"Oh, there is?" asked Charles. "What is it, and how would it help?"

"As Shinigami, we gain life by killing humans. We get whatever life they would lose from our actions- if you would die at sixty and I kill you at forty, I have another twenty years of life. We also can see a human's name and lifespan by looking at them- and if you give me half of your remaining lifespan, I can give you the ability to see names. It works on photographs, drawings that are realistic enough, and live footage."

"I'll. . . Keep it in my mind. I think things are working fine for me right now."

Scrolling through, he kept picking out specific people- women who rejected men a lot, students who argued with message-board members a lot, people of colour existing in public, and of course just anyone he felt violated his order, and looked for their names.

Meanwhile the TV played, and the talking heads never said anything he didn't want them to say. None of them really cared about the new epidemic of death across the nation he was starting. "No one even cares that I'm doing this, Xavier. No one is noticing or trying to stop me. It is the natural order- and I'm here as God's hand to defend it." That was when a message pinged on his phone:

"Hey." It said. "So I might have found your phone number- don't worry, it's big bro. Semper Fi."

Charles jumped up in his seat. _Semper Fi- Joel always signed off his posts with that. Joel's my big bro- wondered what had happened with him! Hadn't heard from him since he joined the military. Let's see. . ._

"Big bro! Dude, haven't heard from you in forever. What's been keeping you busy?"

"Just back from deployment and finally getting to be back in the US of A! Moved back in pretty local with some buddies in a nearby townlet. It's called Sandy Falls. Lots of buddies there. You should come visit!"

 _Sandy Falls? Must be small, I've never heard of it_. He thought.

"Sure. I'll let Mawmaw and Pawpaw know and we can come see you!". There was a pause of nearly five minutes after this text before there was a reply.

"Um. Mawmaw and Pawpaw kinda fell out with me, over letters. I think you were busy and they were still treating you like a dumb kid if you didn't hear about it. They uh, kinda took issue with the fact I had a local girlfriend while I was stationed in Afghanistan. Couldn't deal with having raised a real conquerer I guess."

"Aw. I'll come and visit. Did you bring her back with you?"

"Hell yeah I did!" came the reply.

Pyretta woke up on her couch with a start. She'd dreamt of a rain of skulls, while she sat alone on a throne upon a plain of rock, bone, and ash, Mira dead in her arms. The horizon was fire and the Note was in her hands. In her heart burned hate, and her hands wrote the names of everyone she knew. That still flashed in her mind as she pulled herself upright, and looked around her room and-

-looked straight into the eyes of Fumiko. Seeing the small figure's amethyst eyes staring at her sadly, in a stitched-together face framed by ragged hair and ponytails. The small figure was dressed in a ragged black dress uniform, with a battered peaked cap. Two white wings stretched from her back, with fluffy white feathers contrasting with her clawed fingers and stitched skin. Pyretta gasped and froze, and Fumiko sat up from the armchair. "I'm sorry I startled you. My name is Fumiko. I'm. . . here because of that notebook you hold."

"Wh- who, what, who are you? Wh. . ." Pyretta was crashing, and jittering- this was first thing upon waking up.

"I will not, and cannot harm you by my law. I am a Shinigami- and the original owner of your Death Note. We are gods of death, bound to these notebooks." Fumiko remained still, but had both her palms out.

Pyretta sat up and covered her face, taking a moment. Fumiko walked up and sat down next to Pyretta, her chains on her wings rattling as she walked. "I'm bound to you as long as you hold that notebook. While I am prohibited from materially helping you, I am bound to answer any questions about the book."

"Why me?". Pyretta snapped. "It showed up in my closed bag- did you slip it in while I wasn't looking?"

"First of all, you couldn't see me until you touched it, which you hadn't until you came home from your day out. I didn't have to slip it in. And as for you. . . Why you? Because you know the balance of the world. And understand how it is wrong. We are both bored of the great stagnant spiral. But. . . you decide what happens with that note, what you do."

 _Does that mean I can give it away? But I've used it- those rules have bound me and now I need to use it every 13 days or I die. I have to keep going._ She closed her eyes.

"I'm going to use it, carefully. That's what I'm going to do with it." Pyretta paused a moment. "I have started this race- I'll finish it." She opened her eyes, feeling a boney hand with something in it on hers.

"Here." said Fumiko. "Use my pen- it has the benefit of not running out of ink, and I've not got any need to use it or that Note in a very long time. Oh- we metabolise life by killing humans with the note. Any lifespan you lose to us killing you before you are fated to die, we gain. I have a good few hundred years stored up- I doubt you will keep that note that long."

"First of all that's . . . discomforting, and also, true, I doubt I'll be keeping this that long. Dumb question- would it work with my own name if I wrote it?" asked Pyretta, groaning into her hands.

"A morbid question. Yes it would." Fumiko paused, and looked at Pyretta. "Why would you do that?"

"Put it this way, I get really dramatic and morbid and self-hating sometimes, and I might do something stupid. Good to know I'll have to restrain myself, though."

She pulled herself to her feet, and took the notebook through to her room and her desk, and sat down. Pulling her phone out and putting the news on on her TV, she sat and thought.

"Ok, so . . . how do I do this? How do I go about killing off the people that need to go without being obvious? No mass deaths, obviously. . . Keep things spaced out and varied, and they'll never cotton on." She paused, and looked across her desk. Books of political theory stared back at her, as did religious symbols- history wasn't made by those who tried to avoid being noticed.

"But if people don't catch on that someone is striving against the world, and that they're fighting for change, they won't step up to fight too. I need to be noticed to give hope to people. . . wait, that's it. There'll be an obvious pattern of heart attacks striking at a particular group that people really want gone- landlords, I think- and there will be a larger pattern of varied deaths getting rid of police, politicians, and businessmen. Wage a symbolic war that people can see and is traceable - gonna have to be careful there- and a silent war that supports it. "

The news drifted to an interview with a banker discussing the state of the economy. His name was Huey Louton, and he was a portly old fellow with a gammon face and sideburns in a suit with a top hat. There were a few softball questions and a bit of back and forth before Pyretta noticed.

"So what would you say was the issue with the economy today?" asked the BBC presenter- some slick-haired constantly grinning fellow in a suit slightly off size, who looked like he'd had his spine surgically removed and replaced with toadying.

"Honestly, it's pretty obvious. Younger generations aren't buying houses or luxuries. There's just no impetus to them- they don't work hard enough to earn enough to really perk up the economy. If money's not moving the economy isn't either. They're too used to just drifting by on benefits and their parents." Huey had a voice that was more or less pure nasal whine.

 _And you're ignoring how much more expensive life has gotten, and how wages are still._ Huey Louton. . . Checking on her phone, she couldn't find anywhere that wasn't full of flashing UFO gifs where his name was not Huey Louton, and he was part of the London Merchants Society for a Prosperous Tomorrow- a group with a public face and board of bankers and rich businessmen who boasted about "investing in grand ventures" which included several oil and shipping companies, a large portfolio of luxury industries from spices to tobacco and gems, and an organic farming giant. They also bragged about "charitable work" which amounted to mostly giving money to charities to name their hospitals and schools after dead members of the Society- and occasional large donations to universities that were almost certainly tax evasion. There was a full Board of Directors whose names were public- _Were they real, though? We can look them up once Louton is dead._

The back and forth was getting more irritating- claiming that the newer generations had more to live for, and needed to stop being distracted by luxuries and get back to work. _Didn't he just say younger generations weren't buying luxuries?_

Turning to her Death Note, she wrote his name in it. Forty seconds.

Thirty seconds. He kept wittering about "blitz spirit" - _Dear god, please shut up_ \- and the presenter just kept smiling and nodding.

Fifteen seconds. Another easy question about what the Merchants Society was doing in these "trying times".

Five. Louton was waffling, and four, three, two, one. . . he lives. A boney finger tapped her shoulder.

"That was not his real name. Now. . . I can't tell you what it is, but by rule I am bound to tell you of a way you could find it out." It was Fumiko. "Since the last time one of our number was on this earth, new rules were written about how we interact with humans. There is a deal, where you can obtain the eyes of a Shinigami- allowing you to see people's names and lifespans. The cost of such a deal is half your remaining lifespan, and I can't tell you how much that is."

 _That would be usef-_ _Mira. No, I can't do that. I can't shorten my life when she deserves me._

"Not possible. I have someone else to live for- Mira. I'll find Louton's name another way." Fumiko nodded in response, and Pyretta dived back into the internet.

Scraping into the weirder parts of the internet, she stumbled across a blog called the _Mocha Leninist_. Aside from some very strange takes on future economics, this blog mostly concerned itself with the tracking and naming of rich and famous people who otherwise kept largely anonymous. They did so through the internet, correlating any evidence they could find from testimony, public papertrails, stock ownership, and so forth. It was exhaustive- terrifyingly so.

And here was a whole long blog post on the board of the London Merchants. It detailed who each truly was, sussed out through transaction records. And there was not just Louton's real name, Sam Louton. Alongside the other five members- Sibil Hershel, Stan Kubrey, Peter Lough, Compton Lough, and Michael Louton. Two pairs of brothers were involved in the London Merchants - _Nepotism much? -_ but there was all the names.

"Now to make a statement with these deaths." The current time was 9:25, and Sam was still on the news wittering away. The presenter referred to him as Louton at all times.

**Sam Louton: Heart attack, dies at 9:30 after shouting "Something's coming!"**

**Sibil Hershel: Heart attack, dies at 9:30 after saying "Something's coming" to a close friend**

**Stan Kubrey: Heart attack, dies at 9:30 after writing "Something's coming" on a nearby piece of paper repetitively until death**

**Peter Lough: Heart attack, dies at 9:30 after posting "Something's coming" on all formal Merchants social media**

**Compton Lough: Heart attack, dies at 9:30 after sending an email to all employees saying "something's coming" through internal email systems**

**Michael Louton: Heart attack, dies at 9:30 after calling another investor group and saying "something's coming"**

Three minutes. That was all that Pyretta would have to wait for to see if it all worked. _This is going to send the world into a panic if it works. Six billionaires dying suddenly of heart attacks, ten years after Kira was supposed to have died? And all behaving very strangely before their deaths? The world will not react well._ _The media overlooks it when it's people they need the public to hate dying of a New Kira, but the instant you touch those precious billionaires the gloves are off._

Sam Louton was talking and talking. He liked talking, and felt everyone should listen to him more because he was right- he was clearly right, he was a billionaire- and finally, this news presenter was letting him talk! He opened his mouth again, saying "Well, honestly, so many people don't take schoolwork seriously as the life opportunity it is- why should it be free when you can get so much with say, a medical degree? We've got to recoup our losses as a nation, giving away things for free is why we're in this recession."

"Well, yes, but. . ." the presenter said, before an expression of pain and consternation flashed across Sam's face. Sam clutched his chest and fell over forward, screaming in pain.

"Something's coming!" he yelled. And then, he went limp. The presenter rushed across and shook him.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell is going on? Cut the cameras! There's no pulse!"

Sibil Hershel was sat at home in her country manor, bored and idle. No one was bothering her, and while that was nice it would be lovely to have something to do. Reaching for her phone (real silver case, for the extra flash), she scrolled prospects and social media, idly watching over her domain online.

Sighing and putting the phone down, she paused. _Wait, I should call someone. Something's_ _coming._ Reaching for her phone again she dialed up an old drinking friend- Magdalene, an infamous "socialite" mostly known for inheriting vast sums, being on TV all the time, and having very vociferous opinions. On the third ring, Magdalene picked up, and Sibil put the phone to her ear.

"Mags! How are you?" said Sibil. But no sooner had Magdalene inhaled to start talking than Sibil collapsed into her armchair, gasping with pain. "No! Something's coming." With that, Sibil dropped dead, and dropped the phone, Magdalene's panicked voice talking out of it still.

Stan Kubrey was waiting for a meeting. In a comfortable little lounge he sat, all alone, surrounded by magazines and with a cup of coffee. Oh, and gingerbread, and cashews. . . all the little luxuries. Stan Kubrey was a man of luxury, after all. Every inch of him oozed conspicious consumption from his suit to his watch.

That was when the whispering started. _Something is coming, something is coming, something is coming._ The incessant whispering grew to a fever pitch and he felt something nearby. Looking around for something- anything to write with, he lunged for the gingerbread knife, and cut the tip of his finger. Smearing it across a magazine, on ever page he wrote "something's coming"- before his heart gave out, and he collapsed, still lightly bleeding.

Peter and Compton Lough were the social face of the Merchants. They ran the social media and HR of the group, and both were younger men. Lounging about drinking coffee and idly shitposting - _Marx was the original commie for real- look at how many handouts he got from Engels!-_ with nothing better to fill their time than online wars. Compton turned to Peter, and spoke. "Hey. . . you feel ok bro? The air is really clammy, like something's coming."

Peter spoke back. "Dunno, but looking at social media trends. . . no, something is coming." Compton started frantically opening email programs and setting up a group-wide email, sent to everyone - even Peter- involved with the Merchants, while Peter flicked from app to app, saying the same two words over and over. "Something's coming."

Hundreds of emails went out and were read, and thousands of likes, retweets, reshares, notes, and comments were made on those two words, from enthusiasm - "Aw yeah, can't wait to see what you guys do next!" to the confused "Wtf is this ominous shit". The brothers never read any of them- they were already dead by the time the emails and the posts arrived in the greater internet, collapsing as they each hit their final "send".


End file.
